Starting Over
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: WIP. SG1 goes looking for a new linguist in the unlikeliest of places: a private investigative agency in Los Angeles.
1. Starting Over

**Title**: Starting Over 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: SG-1 goes looking for a new linguist in the unlikeliest of places: a private investigative agency in Los Angeles.

**Spoilers**: A:tS up to "Ground State" (4.02). Begins during Stargate SG-1 "Redemption, Part 2" (6.02)

**Notes**: For a-phoenixdragon, for the Wesley Crossover Ficathon. The two seasons mentioned began airing a couple of months apart in the U.S., but for the purposes of this story the timelines run in parallel. There will be more stories in this universe, as I have time to write them.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Jack asked, hovering in the doorway of General Hammond's office. He was pretty sure he already knew what for, given the conversation he'd walked in on between Hammond and Colonel Chekhov a couple of days ago, but he'd hoped Hammond would have given him a little more time to work something out.

The general looked up from his desk and sighed. "I know this is not what you want to hear," he said heavily, "but part of the deal to get the Russian Stargate involved agreeing to let one of their officers join SG-1."

Jack made a face. Of course the Russians weren't going to let an opportunity like this one go. An opening in the lead gate team coinciding with the rare occurrence of the US owing Russia for their assistance? It was a no-brainer, no matter what Jack's personal feelings were on the subject. Still, he couldn't just let it pass. "This is the thanks I get for saving the world again?" he quipped.

Hammond gave him a regretful look. "I'm sorry, Jack. You're going to have to live with this."

Maybe, maybe not. Jack had spent a little time thinking about it between brushes with imminent death in the last couple of days, and thought he'd come up with an alternative Chekhov wouldn't spit on. "Sir, can't we just throw them a bone? Give them their own unit. They'd be happy with that, wouldn't they?"

Hammond's eyebrows went up, but he was listening. "What about SG-1?"

Jack had given that some thought, too. Teal'c and Carter had been hinting around the subject of Quinn, but however forgiving the pair of them were, and however blameless the kid might actually be when it came right down to it, Jack just couldn't imagine himself trusting Quinn with his back anytime soon and that kind of thing could be deadly in a front-line field unit like theirs. As a last resort, maybe, before yielding to the Russians-- but he hadn't hit the bottom of the barrel just yet.

"Actually, General," he said, slowly. "There's one more linguist I'd like to try. Just one. And if he falls through, I swear I'll take Quinn. No more if's, and's, or but's."

Hammond sat back in his chair a little, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Who, Jack?" he asked. "You've been through half the social scientists on this base already. The ones you _haven't_ taken on a mission since Dr. Jackson's death have either gone out with SG-1 before and declared themselves unwilling to do so on a more permanent basis, or do not meet the minimum fitness standards required of gate team personnel."

"I'm aware of that, sir," Jack said, retrieving a slip of paper from his pocket and stepping closer to the desk to offer it to the general. It wasn't much to look at, just a rough-edged scrap torn from one of Daniel's ubiquitous journals, but it contained a short list of names written in the archaeologist's hand. All but the last had been ruled out, courtesy of Jack; doodles of tombstones and baby's rattles filled the whitespace around them. The last name, however, had been circled with red ink.

Hammond took the list, giving it a quick perusal, then looked back up at Jack with an expectant expression.

Jack cleared his throat. He knew George wasn't going to like the explanation much-- but no less than Jack liked talking about it in the first place. "You know Daniel wasn't having much fun, the last few missions before, well, before. Hell, the last year; it wasn't just the thing with Reece, it was... a lot of things."

He paused to collect his thoughts and grimaced at the echoes of the frustration and anger that had colored a lot of their interactions in those last months. He still wondered sometimes if that had figured into Daniel's decision to go with Oma. He hoped not, but shit happened sometimes, to him more often than not; and either way it made no difference to the situation at hand.

Hammond nodded pensively, then gently prodded him. "Go on."

Jack sighed. "Anyway, I asked him what we were supposed to do without him while he was gone." Phrased differently, of course-- and Daniel's initial reply had been sharp and sarcastic. Jack had tried to convince him that even when he disagreed with Daniel's opinion and didn't take his suggestions, the linguist's viewpoint was still a necessary part of the way SG-1 did things, but Daniel hadn't been in the mood to try to follow Jack's train of logic. "He said he'd been out of the field for a few years, but he could think of a few people off the top of his head that could probably manage at least half of what he did every day without freaking out over it, then wrote out that list of names."

"But he did intend to return?" Hammond asked, concern for the absent man clear in his tone.

Jack nodded, shortly. "Just to catch his breath a little, he said." He curved his lips in a wry, bitter smile, and glanced up at the ceiling. "I wouldn't count on that applying in this situation, though."

The general nodded again, then changed the subject. "But why these names, and why now? I've heard Dr. Jackson complain several times over the years about the lack of civilian social scientists in his department, but the only one he ever requested clearance for was the unfortunate Dr. Rothman."

Jack had wondered that himself; fortunately, he'd also asked for the answer at the time. "Most of them have their own pet projects," he said. "And a lot of them don't-- didn't-- get along with Daniel at all, even though he respected their work. You remember how we got him in the first place; he didn't exactly leave all that many bridges unburned."

Hammond examined the list again, tapping a finger against it thoughtfully. "I suppose my next question is, why haven't I seen this list before?"

Jack winced. "I had Carter do a little research on them first, to make sure they were actually available. Daniel wasn't kidding; he really had been out of touch the last few years, and most of them were either dead, out of the country on a dig, pregnant, or what have you. That last guy, Pryce, isn't even a linguist any more; he's some kind of independent PI out of L.A. But Daniel recommended him, so I thought it was at least worth a shot."

"What do Teal'c and Major Carter have to say about the idea?" Hammond asked, still skeptical.

"Carter said that if Daniel recommended him, we should at least meet him, get him to sign a non-disclosure agreement and sound him out. T feels about the same. Quinn's starting to grow on him, but he wants to meet this other guy before we make any decisions."

The general considered that a moment, then passed the list back across the desk. "Very well. You have three days. But this is your last chance, Jack. No more delaying tactics. Keep that in mind."

"Yes, sir," Jack agreed, then turned and left to tell his team, feeling as though he'd won a minor victory. Pryce had better turn out to be worth it after all of this-- but anyone would be better than a Russian. Even Quinn.

* * *

Wesley stirred muzzily at the sound of the phone, blinking his way out of a series of blurry, indefinably disturbing dreamscapes. He hadn't slept well in months, not since he'd first found the words "Facto Ergo Importuna Tauum" in a commentary referencing the Nyazian prophecies and determined that he was going to have to steal his friend's son to protect them both. Nothing had gone right since. Nothing... except...

The phone rang again, and Wesley sat up, swaying a little at the unexpected weakness and fatigue that assailed him at the motion. His left forearm twinged, and he glanced down at the bandage encircling the limb in confusion; then he remembered the events of the previous evening and briefly closed his eyes. A wave of-- not relief, precisely, but perhaps a reduction of the usual gnawing guilt and anger that propelled him through his days-- swept over him, and he mentally ticked another item off of his mental to-do list. With Angel retrieved, Justine banished, and Gunn and Fred enlightened as to Connor's state of loyalty, all that remained was to turn his research on Cordelia's disappearance over to his former friends. Angel could attempt to contact Dinza, dark demi-goddess of the lost, and free her, or not; Wesley's role in their lives was now over.

The phone rang a third time, and he shook away the dark thoughts, then climbed out of bed and tracked down the nearest extension. It was likely one of his new team, perhaps Diana, reporting on the progress of Mrs. O'Leary's case; they'd had a hot lead on the team of demons that were holding her husband for ransom the night before.

"Pryce," he said hoarsely, raising the phone to his ear.

"Uh, hi," an unfamiliar male voice replied. "This is Colonel Jack O'Neill of the United States Air Force. I'm looking for a Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?"

The Air Force was looking for him? Wesley frowned, turning over the last several cases he'd solved in his mind, but could recall no connection. He knew of only one American military organization that had any grasp of the supernatural, and thus would have reason to contact a former Watcher, but as far as he was aware that unit had been strictly Army and was mostly disbanded at this late date. "This is he," he answered, cautiously. "Are you in need of my professional services, Colonel, or is this a personal call?"

"You could say that," Colonel O'Neill answered, in a suspiciously wry tone of voice.

Wesley's frown deepened at the reply. He had only been operating independently for a few short months, since Angel's disappearance and Lilah's seductions had prompted him to stop wallowing in his own pain and do something productive to alleviate the fallout of his ill-considered attempt to save Connor. What could he possibly have done to bring himself to this man's attention? Or was this the first step in yet another of Lilah's attempts to bring him into the fold of Wolfram and Hart?

"What sort of services are you in need of, Colonel?" he asked. "And might I inquire how you got this number?"

"We have our ways," the colonel replied, deliberately vague in a way that set Wesley's nerves even more on edge than they already were. "Look. Is there somewhere we can meet? Make it as public as you want-- I have a couple of friends with me, and we have a proposition for you."

An offer of a neutral meeting place, not even a request to meet at Wesley's office; something serious lay behind the Air Force officer's presence in Los Angeles, something vital enough that he could not speak of it over the phone but would willingly take steps to ensure that Wesley felt the risk of meeting him blind to be less important than the opportunity offered. Seen in that light, his decision was a simple one.

"Forgive me, Colonel, but I don't know you, and in my line of work it would be inadvisable to be seen publicly meeting with members of the armed forces. I shall have to decline."

"You're right," O'Neill answered, but his tone of voice was anything but defeated. Wesley braced himself for the rest of the colonel's argument-- just in time to receive a considerable shock.

"You don't know me," O'Neill continued. "But you know Daniel Jackson."

What had Daniel to do with the United States Air Force? Wesley thought, utterly thrown. "I fail to see the relevance, as Dr. Jackson has been dead for more than five years," he replied, acerbically. "If you're looking for someone who had some knowledge of his work, I'm afraid I can't help you; we crossed paths whilst studying philology at Oxford many years ago, but our specific research interests were entirely unrelated and we did not keep in contact."

"Let's just say that the rumors of his death were exaggerated, up until a couple of months ago," the colonel said, cryptically. "And I'd kinda prefer to talk about the rest in person."

Wesley paused for a moment, clutching the phone, running over all the possible implications of the situation in his mind. The archaeologist had been scouted by the Watcher's Council during his time at university in England, in part due to his intelligence and in part due to a connection on his father's mother's side, but Daniel had not responded positively to the overtures. The fallout had included the dissolution of his tentative friendship with one Wesley Wyndham-Pryce and his relocation back to the United States to finish the next of his post-graduate degrees. Nevertheless, the Council had continued to track him, with the idea of approaching him again when his own notably fringe theories led him to professional failure. Daniel's disappearance and reported death in Colorado mere weeks after his last, disastrous public lecture had been widely attributed to suicide by those among the Council whom Wesley had overheard discussing the event. If Daniel had not in fact died, but instead been swept up in secrecy by the United States government...

"Very well," Wesley said, quickly reversing his decision. He named a nearby park he knew would be crowded with parents and children during most of the day, then a time-- an hour from, well, whatever time it might currently be.

"We'll be there," the colonel said decisively, then rang off.

Wesley sat motionless on his bed for several more moments, considering all the ramifications of the government having acquired Daniel Jackson despite the man's wild theories, and what that might mean about the theories themselves in conjunction with ancient Watchers' texts, thought mythical, that Wesley had researched during the period of their acquaintance. If the Air Force had discovered any trace of the parasitic demons known as the Goa'uld or the fixed portal that race and their servants, called Jaffa, had purportedly used to travel to and from their home dimension, this might quickly become a matter for the Slayer. He could not afford not to investigate. He could only hope the officers he was about to meet were not already under the demons' control, or the situation might shortly become desperate indeed.

He dressed quickly, secreting a minimum of defensive weaponry on his person, then made a quick detour to the nearest post office. It was the work of a moment to write a brief note to Angel summarizing the information and conclusions contained in his file on Cordelia's disappearance; he then enclosed the whole in a large envelope, addressed to the Hyperion. Should something go wrong at the meeting, at least her fate would not be on his conscience.

* * *

At first glance, Colonel O'Neill and his accomplices were both more and less dangerous than Wesley had feared. They had dressed in civilian clothes and seated themselves around a picnic table, busily eating what looked like sandwiches and other lunch items from small brown bags. They did not stand out from the surrounding populace; anyone seeing the meeting would not look at them askance. They spotted him almost immediately, however, and the watchful gaze of the gray-haired man and his large, dark-skinned companion raised the hair on the back of his neck. He recognized seasoned warriors when he saw them; he was not unskilled in the art of self-defense, especially given the events of the last few years, but he had a feeling these men could easily hand him his head given the least provocation. Perhaps the blonde woman accompanying them as well, despite her welcoming smile.

The older man's gaze dipped toward Wesley's throat as he approached; when Wesley came to a halt at their table, he nodded at the scarring there and said, "That looks like it hurt."

The blonde at his side hushed him with a quick, "Colonel!" and then took over the conversation, reaching out to Wesley with an open hand. "Hi! I'm Major Samantha Carter. This is Colonel O'Neill, and Murray; Daniel was the fourth member of our team."

"I find that rather difficult to believe," Wesley said, avoiding her hand. "What would the military have to do with an archaeologist, especially one with as poor a public reputation as Dr. Jackson had at the time of his disappearance?"

"How about you sit down and stay awhile," the colonel parried casually, gesturing at the open portion of bench across the table from him and next to Murray-- who almost certainly was traveling under an alias, given the way Major Carter had paused on his name.

Wesley considered that a moment, then nodded and took his seat, intensely aware of the looming menace at his side. Something about the man was setting off his danger sense, even moreso than the officers; he ignored it as best he could and raised his eyebrows expectantly at Colonel O'Neill.

"He translated things for us," the colonel finally said. "Classified information, in a lot of rare languages. Urgent stuff. You were on his short list of potential replacements, if anything happened to him. So, here we are."

Considering how narrow the overlap was in their respective language pools, as far as Wesley remembered-- and how much of that overlap was concentrated in languages considered dead by modern scholars-- that was a rather baffling assertion. What could Daniel have possibly been translating? And that was not the only problem with O'Neill's statement.

"That seems unlikely," Wesley countered aloud, "considering the fact that it has been some years since I last heard from Dr. Jackson, and we did not part on the best of terms."

Major Carter apparently decided it was time for her to be diplomatic; she glanced sideways at the colonel, then leaned forward a little, earnestness in every line of her face and posture. "He admitted that he didn't get along with you personally," she said, "but he respected your ability, and he thought you'd be able to work with us. We can't tell you more in such a public location-- you'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement, as well-- but please, consider it. The work is very important, and you would be well compensated."

Wesley glanced from her expectant face to the narrow-eyed, considering look O'Neill was favoring him with, then to the calm expression and raised eyebrow of his silent benchmate. There was still only one reason he could think of that Daniel would have become such a vital resource to the armed forces, one that correlated suspiciously well with the cap pulled low on 'Murray's' head.

Still, the presence of one potential Jaffa did not a demonic invasion of the Air Force make. He had only to remember Angel to imagine that this one, in company with a pair of soldiers who did not exhibit any traces of inhuman body language or manner of speech, might well be a 'friendly'. He decided to take a chance, and recalled a few words from the limited linguistic codex the long-ago Watchers had included in their descriptions of the demons' rule of ancient Egypt.

"Tek ma tek," he said carefully, still watching the demon, hoping that the phrase really did mean "Friends, well met."

Spines stiffened universally around the table, confirming his suspicion. "Where the _fuck_ did you learn _that_?" O'Neill hissed, but there were no sounds of weapons being drawn; Wesley ignored him, still watching 'Murray', who inclined his head and repeated the phrase with a slightly different pattern of emphasis.

Wesley listened, then nodded back. "I'll take you up on that confidentiality agreement," he said, turning from 'Murray' to Major Carter. "I think we have much to discuss with one another."

"I'll say," Colonel O'Neill said irritably, and rose from the table. "Carter? You think you could show him to our suite at the Sheraton? I have a few calls to make."

"Certainly, sir," Carter said, then smiled at Wesley again, a bit warier than before. "If that's all right with you?"

Demons in the hands of the United States Air Force; what other choice was there? He could not let the situation continue unchecked.

"Of course," Wesley replied, and rose from his seat, feeling the press of destiny at his back. Hopefully, this career would go better than his last... and the ones before that... and his original friendship with Daniel; he was getting rather used to starting over, time after time, but each occurrence was more painful than the last. At least he had no ties to hold him back at present, nothing to leave behind.

He touched the scarring at his throat absently, aware of O'Neill's eyes still on him, and followed the major toward her rental car.

--


	2. Song and Dance

**Title**: Song and Dance 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: SG-1 meets with Wesley Wyndham-Pryce a second time, and the former Watcher makes the decision that will change the course of his future.

**Spoilers**: A:tS up to "Ground State" (4.02). Stargate SG-1 through "Redemption, Part 2" (6.02), and AU from there.

* * *

Jack watched Carter and Teal'c drive away from the park with a grimace. The initial interview they'd scheduled with Pryce hadn't gone at all as expected, and the fun wasn't over yet. He ambled casually to a corner of the park where there weren't any nearby ears and the play equipment around him would disturb anyone trying to pick up his conversation from line of sight, and flipped open his cell phone to dial a familiar number.

"We got a live one here, General," he said without preamble when Hammond answered.

"What do you mean, Colonel?" came the surprised reply.

"Either we've found our new linguist, or he's some kind of Goa'uld spy," Jack said bluntly, boiling the meeting down to the barest essentials. "Or even NID. It's too early to tell yet. But he's been acting suspicious from the get-go, and when Carter asked if he would sign the confidentiality agreement he said something to Teal'c in Goa'uld before agreeing."

"That's... unexpected," Hammond replied. "We've looked into his background, and according to what we've uncovered his degrees and research were all in the European mythologies, not those of ancient Egypt. Even Dr. Jackson never found much explicit evidence of the Goa'uld presence on Earth. Where would Mr. Wyndham-Pryce have come across any remnant of their language? Especially without Dr. Jackson being made aware of the discovery through academic channels?"

"_Exactly_," Jack said firmly. It was one too many coincidences for his peace of mind; it had to mean something, though he couldn't tell yet what that something might be.

Hammond sighed. "Very well," he said. "I'll send SG-2 and Mr. Quinn as back-up. They can be there in three hours."

While Jack appreciated the support, Jonas Quinn was _not_ his favorite person in the galaxy, a fact he knew the general was well aware of. "Quinn, sir?" he asked, wincing.

"Either he'll be joining your team, and you'll have to get used to him sooner or later, or I'll be putting him with SG-2 and they will," Hammond replied, pragmatically. "He's a very intelligent young man, highly motivated, and he did bring us the naquadria at high cost to himself. The only thing he's asked in return is the chance to join an off-world team and make a difference. I believe he deserves that chance."

"Believe me, sir, you don't need to explain to me how _deserving_ he is," Jack said, sourly. "Carter and Teal'c have done that already." At length. Over lunch and in elevators, when a man should have been able to escape that kind of thing. And it wasn't that they didn't have a point; Jack just didn't want to hear it. "And heck, I've met the guy," he continued. "But I'd still prefer not to have him on my team."

A sigh echoed over the line. He knew that sigh; it was the sigh of every parent and superior officer the world over who really expected better of their juniors. "Jack, what happened wasn't his fault."

"I _know_ that, sir," Jack replied. "But if Pryce _doesn't_ turn out to be a spy, _he'll_ be on my team, and that's that. We were lucky enough to snag _one_ geek who already had some idea about the truth behind the garbage in our history books before he ever came on the project. A second one, from a different background entirely, who might have insights Daniel didn't? We'd be a fool to let him go in favor of a guy whose knowledge is all recycled from Daniel's journals, no matter how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Quinn might be."

He heard another sigh, this one more thoughtful and resigned. "Very well, Jack, you've made your point. But do me a favor; at least wait until SG-2 arrives to get yourselves in hot water."

"I'll do my best, sir," Jack said, a hint of flippant salute in his tone, and ended the call. Then he tapped his chin thoughtfully with the cell phone for a moment and made a few quick plans.

* * *

The trip to the Air Force officers' suite at the Sheraton wasn't the friendliest in Wesley's memory, but neither was it the most hostile; that honor belonged to his frequent trips to the docks with Justine over the long summer they'd spent hunting for Angel's coffin. The large, dark-skinned demon Major Carter referred to as "Murray" kept a close watch on him, as he had ever since Wesley had spoken to him in the language of his masters' race, but Wesley had spent a significant portion of the last three years working with a brooding master vampire, and that had rather skewed Wesley's perspective of intimidation. He saw beyond the stern facade to the curiosity and hint of warning in the Jaffa's attitude, and turned his attention to Major Carter as a likelier source of information.

The blonde woman was clearly bursting with questions, but just as clearly reigning herself in until the necessary legalities could be satisfied. She seemed to be an intelligent and capable woman, but also one likely still used to operating within the boundaries provided by rules and regulations, unlike her team leader. The gray-haired Colonel had held the power of life and death for many in his hands more than once, unless Wesley was very much mistaken in his reading of the man, and would take the initiative to do what was necessary if the situation required it regardless of what his actual orders might say. Wesley had seen the look often enough in the Powers' so-called Champions since his introduction to Sunnydale to recognize it, and had seen it in his own mirror more than once in the days leading up to his disastrous attempt to save Angel's son.

Carter glanced at him in the rear-view mirror a few times, blue eyes wide with interest, then fumbled for a safe topic of conversation. "So," she finally commented. "How long have you lived in Los Angeles?"

Wesley was tempted to give her a flippant reply, but he could not afford be rude to her; there was no telling how long he might be required to work with her or those who reported to her as he sought to determine the scope and nature of the current Goa'uld presence on Earth, nor what steps might be required to close that Pandora's box again and wall the intruding demons back into their own dimension.

"More than two years," he replied mildly, searching for a safe question to ask in return. 'And how long have you been working with demons?' seemed a little abrupt. Likewise, 'So how did Dr. Jackson actually die?' He was almost afraid to find out; it would be terribly ironic for the man to have died at the hands of the very class of beings the Council had attempted to recruit him to research and fight all those years ago.

Daniel had been a very intelligent man, but stubborn, and had had no patience for what he'd perceived to be an elaborate scam; in attempting to be enticingly mysterious, Travers had neglected to provide tangible proof of the Council's claims, and Daniel had written the group off as lunatics at best, religious fanatics at worst. Wesley had, of course, been included in that number, as he had attempted to defend his chosen-- destined-- career. At the time, Daniel's obstinacy had thoroughly irked Wesley, and though he understood his former friend's attitude much better so many years after the fact, he still felt it had been a terrible waste of opportunity.

Murray spoke before anything else came to mind. "And during that time, you have worked as a private investigator," he commented, the words mild but backed with an impressive degree of quiet intensity.

Wesley wondered how much they knew of his recent history; very few of the actual facts of his time as an employee of, and later the manager of, Angel Investigations were a matter of public record, and the private firm he'd formed in the last few months had even less to do with regular legal channels. Nevertheless, a paper trail obviously existed; the private investigator's license he'd pulled strings with old friends in the Watcher's Council to obtain was registered to his current address, and some of his current and former clients worked both sides of the fence, supernatural and otherwise. Someone would have talked, the only question was who, and how much.

"I have," he said cautiously, answering the question as minimally as possible.

"For what reason did you choose this career?" Murray continued, one eyebrow slightly raised.

That was an even thornier question, given that a demon was asking it; if he did not already know, then the Army project formerly known as the Initiative had apparently kept their records sealed and classified beyond what the Air Force group in contact with Murray's species and their masters currently had access to. Wesley may not have been involved in the actual resistance against the Initiative's operations in Sunnydale, but the group had not lacked for intelligent personnel, and Wesley knew he was down in their files as a person of interest due to his connection with Buffy's former vampire associate-- Angel.

That lack of awareness was a positive development, from Wesley's perspective; the Goa'uld demons had been absent from the Earth for more than 5,000 years, and must not yet have realized that the Watcher's Council was the modern evolution of the coalition of sorcerers, Slayer, and alleged travelers from the future who had been responsible for guiding the uprisings and shutting this world away from them so long ago. He had no idea how the Goa'uld would react to the knowledge of the wider variety, and community, of demons extant upon this planet were they not already aware of them, nor how they would regard his role in preventing said demons from attaining their various predatory goals in this part of the world.

Of course, Murray could be merely _pretending_ not to know the truth of Wesley's affiliations. That did not truly signify, however; either way, the penalties for understating the truth were likely to be less severe than the consequences of overstating. Better not to address the subject until and unless they brought it up themselves.

"I was sent to Sunnydale a few years ago to assume control of a project previously run by an employee who had been fired for partisanship," he summarized, carefully choosing words that avoided the supernatural aspects of the job. "I was not properly prepared before I was sent, nor made aware of the full details of the situation, and when I inevitably failed in spectacular fashion I was fired as well. Rather than attempt to return home, I decided to make the best of things, and accepted an offer of employment from an acquaintance in Los Angeles."

"I'm surprised you didn't look for another job in research or translation, given your skills and credentials in those areas," Major Carter commented, a trace of disbelief in her tone.

"Yes, well," Wesley said dryly, "when one's previous employer is as old, established, and well thought of in one's field of expertise as the IWC, a negative recommendation carries a great deal of weight. And you'd probably be surprised how often my academic skills have actually played a significant part in the successful resolution of a case."

"Really," Major Carter said. He could see her raising blonde eyebrows in the rear-view mirror.

"Indeed," Wesley replied, raising his eyebrows in return.

She glanced back up at the mirror, meeting his eyes with an expression of startlement, then glanced over at Murray; the large Jaffa glanced back at her with an amused expression and inclined his head.

"Yes, well," the major said, clearing her throat and gesturing at the Sheraton sign visible through the windshield. "Looks like we're almost there. The colonel shouldn't be far behind us."

No further questions of substance were asked or answered as the car was parked and Wesley accompanied the Air Force officer and her demonic associate up to their suite. They moved as though intimately familiar with one another, barely noticing the intrusion of the other into their personal space, but both seemed highly attuned to Wesley's every step; that was either a very good sign, indicating that the demon had been present on Earth and a part of the human's team for quite some time without feeling any noticeable urge for world conquest, or a very bad sign, indicating that she herself had been possessed by a subtle master-species demon with which Murray, whatever his true name might be, was well acquainted.

When they reached the suite, Major Carter offered him a chair and a sheaf of papers requiring his signature. Lilah's face rose unbidden in his thoughts as he read through the paperwork, and he wondered absently what she would make of his disappearance from Los Angeles so immediately after their latest encounter. She had never been secretive about the fact that she would like to recruit him as an asset for Wolfram and Hart, and he had just as clearly insinuated that his life at Angel Investigations was long behind him. That had been a lie, of course, the first step in an imagined longer campaign; their interaction had always been of the use-and-be-used variety, and it had seemed like a waste not to reap what benefit he could from the situation. Still, what he'd told her about not being concerned any longer about what happened to his former friends wasn't very far from the truth. If Lilah was as skilled at her job as she professed to be, he didn't doubt that she would have discerned the sincerity of his emotions.

Would Wolfram and Hart complicate his legal standing in an effort to disrupt the Air Force's acquisition of him? Did it even matter? Any branch of the armed forces that dealt with a topic as secretive as the supernatural would certainly have methods of getting around such problems. Wesley shook his head and applied pen to paper, slowly and deliberately signing his name.

The loop of the last E was still drying on the page when the door opened, admitting the missing colonel. The man looked much less displeased with the world at large than he had when Wesley and the others had left him behind in the park; clearly, something of importance had transpired in the meantime. Hopefully, whatever it was would work to Wesley's benefit, not detriment.

Colonel O'Neill eyed him curiously, then turned to his second and asked, "So, you done the song and dance yet, Carter?"

"No sir," she said, smiling faintly as she shook her head at him. "We figured we'd wait for you."

"Good," the man said, snagging a chair from the small table Wesley was seated at. He turned it around backward, then sat down, crossing his arms over the top of it as he stared at Wesley. "I was kind of hoping you'd answer a few questions for us before we got to that part," he continued. "Like where you learned to speak Goa'uld."

"Goa'uld?" Wesley replied, frowning as he repeated the word. From the notes in the files, he'd been under the impression that the word was more properly spoken with three syllables, rather than one. But the degree of linguistic drift that had occurred over the last several thousand years was rather irrelevant to the colonel's question.

"I am a student of ancient cultures, Colonel," he said. "I spent a good deal of time while I was studying at university in the archives of the private institution I was later employed by, the IWC, and amongst their records are a great many personal accounts of ancient events, including many documents not preserved elsewhere. One such is a codex, thought to be a fabrication due to the unusual durability of the materials from which it is made, describing a--foreign species-- known as the Goa'uld who, with their slaves the Jaffa, ruled Ancient Egypt before the coming of the Scorpion King. A limited lexicon of terms in the Goa'uld language was included by the author."

O'Neill's expression grew progressively more blank as Wesley spoke; when he finished, the colonel glanced over at Major Carter and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. "Damn, he talks like Daniel, too. Translation, Carter?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but humored him anyway. "He found an ancient diary, sir, with a dictionary in it."

"How... convenient," O'Neill said, a hearty dose of skepticism in his tone, as he turned back to Wesley. "And what made you think this... diary... of yours had anything to do with our coming here?"

It was Wesley's turn to raise his eyebrows as he responded dryly, "Daniel's areas of research and my own overlapped in very few areas, that I recall. I am no expert on Egyptian mythology, and he was well aware of that; the fact that he still recommended me to you-- and that the government acquired him and saw fit to assign him to a front-line military team based out of Colorado, of all places, judging by your body language with one another-- rather limits the field of possibilities as to why your team is here."

"And you decided that the most likely possibility was that the Air Force was in contact with _aliens_?" Major Carter blurted, then subsided a little, looking a bit embarrassed at her outburst. "Sorry, but I just don't see how you jumped to that conclusion."

"Aliens?" Wesley said in surprise, raising his eyebrows. "No, I rather thought it was demons."

"_Demons_?" Colonel O'Neill replied in disbelief.

"Demons?" Carter echoed him. "Do you mean, like in the Greek sense, of daemons being entities intermediate between gods and men?" Off her superior's still incredulous expression, she continued, "What? The Goa'uld set themselves up as gods over the people they control; it would make sense, even if an ancient scholar were convinced that the Goa'uld weren't actually divine, for he or she to still assign them supernatural power based on their seemingly magical technological superiority."

Wesley winced, wishing he could take back his instinctive response to Carter's question, and began to wonder whether the situation at hand was something other than what he had initially believed it to be. Demonic or not, for these Air Force officers to believe these beings to be literal extraterrestrials, they must have a credible reason for that belief-- provided they were not in fact puppets to the will of a conquering Goa'uld.

"That is the designation used to refer to them in the text," Wesley replied, deflecting the question with seeming assent.

"The Goa'uld are not demons, any more than they are gods," Murray spoke up, stepping forward until he stood just behind O'Neill's shoulder. "They are parasites." In his eyes flared the spark of the true believer, one who had passed through fire and hoped to prevent others from suffering the same. A defector, then, as Wesley had speculated earlier-- provided, again, that this was not all an elaborate setup. Though, who would waste such time and energy on _Wesley's_ account?

Wesley raised his hands before him, palm out, and replied quietly but firmly. "I believe you," he said. "But I think perhaps it is time for you to answer a few questions; it is clear that my knowledge of the matter is incomplete."

Wolfram & Hart was a practical organization, for all that it was evil; he doubted it would spend so much on him without guarantee of a return. And the majority of Wesley's other enemies were either connected to the Watcher's Council, or by proxy of his association with Angel; the former group had washed its hands of him, and the latter would not waste time with Angel's betrayer when they could instead approach those whom Angel still cared about, such as Connor, Fred, or Gunn. No, surreal as it might seem, he was truly in a room with Air Force officers who believed in-- and likely fought-- beings they thought of as extraterrestrials, with at least one such actually living and working in their midst.

"Not so fast," O'Neill countered, grimly. "You're saying you _expected_ to find out the Air Force was up to its neck in fire and brimstone?"

Wesley didn't know what to say to that, but fortunately did not have to answer; O'Neill barely paused before speaking again.

"I'm not going to waste our time offering a place on my team to someone with a screw loose. So I gotta know. Did you think we were mixed up with ghosts and goblins just because of something out of a book? Or are you speaking from personal experience, here?"

"Sir--" Carter began to object.

"It's all right," Wesley said, throwing her an apologetic glance. "It is a valid question, considering the subject matter." Wesley wasn't one hundred percent certain which answer the colonel was looking for, but he rather suspected it was the latter; this wasn't another scholar he was talking to. This was a man of action, for whom the evidence of his senses would carry more weight than any dry theory discovered in a dusty tome.

"I would call it... personal experience," he continued, stroking the still-livid scar across his throat, and stopped there, watching O'Neill for his reaction.

The colonel's eyes dropped to the arm he'd gestured with, and he raised his eyebrows at the bandage visible through the sleeve. "That, too?" he asked, lightly.

Wesley's lips thinned. No point in lying about the wound, but the details had best be kept brief. "The nightlife around here can be... a little rough."

The colonel nodded thoughtfully, then sat back and gestured to Major Carter. "Okay. Good to know. Your turn, Carter; hit him with it."

"That's all you're going to ask?" Carter asked her superior, brow furrowed. "Sir, the existence of the supernatural--"

"Seems a little less impossible when you consider, say, Orlin? Or Oma? Or, you know, that guy with the Darth Vader fetish?" O'Neill prompted her.

"But that's--" Carter said, then paused, frowning. "I suppose, provided that-- well, it could appear that-- Huh." She thought a moment more, then turned to Wesley abruptly with a bright smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"All right, then. Our story begins in Giza, in 1928, when Dr. Langford..."

* * *

By the time Major Carter finished explaining the discovery of the Stargate, Daniel Jackson's role in the program, and an abbreviated history of the ever-evolving mission of Stargate Command, Wesley had reached three conclusions.

Firstly, that though the Shadow Men had, according to this version of the tale, fallen victim to Clarke's Third Law, these modern soldiers had likely also fallen afoul of its reverse. To a woman who walks through wormholes to other planets on a daily basis, any sufficiently advanced magic would naturally be indistinguishable from the impossibly complex technology she uses on a daily basis. If the ancients who described the Goa'uld empire on Earth had got the mechanism of the demons' transportation circle wrong, they were unlikely to have been completely off the mark when they described the nature of the creatures themselves; portals and wormholes were indistinguishably different to one who had no inkling of the science underlying their structures, but magical detection of demonic essence was something the Shadow Men had understood very well indeed.

Secondly, that if he took these people, SG-1, up on their offer, he would effectively be the fifth man on their team, not the fourth. It would be the early days at Angel Investigations all over again, with the ghost of the fallen hero always influencing the way the others perceived him. He didn't know if he had the strength to start over as a second-class team member again after all that he'd experienced since his arrival in Los Angeles.

But thirdly, he could not let this opportunity pass him by. He could continue to skulk through the streets of Los Angeles, poaching the least attractive supernatural cases out from under Angel Investigations and waiting for something dire to come up that would cause his former team to _need_ his expertise, or he could join _this_ team and forge a new path for himself, continuing to protect the world from threats that the average citizen would never learn about, nor understand.

He had also come to a rudimentary, and reluctantly admiring, opinion of the men and woman who would be his team, should he agree to go with them. Carter was a brilliant woman it would be a pleasure to match wits with, the Colonel a gifted soldier with a taste for sarcastic commentary, and Teal'c-- for such was Murray's true name-- a tower of strength, both physically and emotionally, for his chosen family, his adopted world, and the people he had left behind among the stars.

Wesley could not help but be reminded of his former co-workers as he watched them: Fred the brilliant scientist, Gunn the muscle with a quip, and Angel their backbone; or, in an older example, Willow the bright budding witch, Buffy the witty agent of action, and Xander their foundation and heart. Yet neither group was complete without their agent of knowledge; the Scoobies had Giles, and for one small, impossibly distant and implausibly happy stretch of time, he had assisted Cordelia in filling that role for Angel Investigations.

SG-1 had had Daniel Jackson. And Daniel had recommended him-- Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, whose last conversation with the man had been full of acrimony-- as one qualified to follow in his place. Had the archaeologist come to wonder, over the years, if he might have been a little hasty turning down the Watcher's Council's offer all those years ago?

"So, what do you think?" O'Neill asked, breaking into his thoughts as the silence began to drag out in the hotel suite.

Wesley swallowed the last of the tea in the bottom of the cheap plastic cup the hotel had provided, then met the man's gaze. Somewhere behind the cynicism and the press of destiny, he felt a sense of wonder struggling to emerge: these people traveled to other planets-- to other galaxies-- on a regular basis, and had access to knowledge beyond the reach of even Wolfram and Hart, whose connections with other worlds were reached via dimensional portal, not extraterrestrial travel.

Yet he could not appear too eager, lest he strengthen O'Neill's suspicions-- and he could not forget why he had taken O'Neill's invitation to talk in the first place. This was business, not pleasure. Though he might no longer be a Watcher by profession, he was one still at heart, and whatever role he might fill for these people that would remain his true purpose: to seek out, study, and confront evil in whatever form he might find it.

"I think that you have given me a lot to consider," he said, slowly. "I think that I have several cases waiting that are in urgent need of my input, and that it would not be wise to make a final decision tonight. Might I return tomorrow to discuss this further?"

O'Neill nodded, appearing paradoxically to relax at the idea of a delay. "I thought you might feel that way," he replied. "We'll be here until day after tomorrow. Take your time. Just, you know, don't go sharing the news with any of your friends in the meantime; we were serious about that confidentiality thing."

"I quite understand, I assure you," Wesley told him wryly, then set the cup down and stood, stretching muscles that had gone slightly stiff over the course of the interview.

"It was good to meet you," Major Carter said, extending a hand to him.

"Likewise," he replied, shaking the hand firmly. She had slightly callused palms, manicured nails, and a strong grip; as in all else, he realized suddenly, like a mixture of Cordelia and Fred, save for her blonde hair and her occupation. He would have to remain cautious in his dealings with her.

Tealc, who had been mostly silent during the extended question and answer session when the subject did not concern either his people, his role in the project, or the Goa'uld themselves, merely inclined his head by way of farewell, bending slightly at the waist. It was a beautifully formal gesture. Wesley could not help but once more compare the-- man, for he surely deserved the term-- to Angel as he bowed in return; a former master of his own kind, working with a small, dedicated human team to fight against everything he'd previously stood for.

Wesley took his leave at a considerately unhurried pace, aware that he would likely pick up a tail on his way back to his apartment, and took a cab back to the park where he had left his vehicle. O'Neill had left the suite more than once during Carter's explanation, more than likely meeting with other associates; a wise move, strategically, and one that would mean Wesley could not be sure of recognizing whomever was set to follow him. The best course, he knew, was to present no suspicious behavior, or even awareness of any observers he happened to spot, until he reached his apartment; from there, he could arrange a distraction and escape through the nearest sewer access to go about his business.

If nothing else, Mrs. O'Leary's case needed to be resolved immediately, and he would have to inform Diana, Hawkins and the others that he would be out of town indefinitely. Hopefully, he would not run across Angel or any of his other former associates while he was out. He did not fancy having to explain fresh injuries when he returned to the Sheraton the next day.

Hope struggled in Wesley's breast again, and he squashed it down ruthlessly. There was no new beginning here, no fresh start, however it might seem. He was merely going undercover in a new theater of operations, nothing more.

--


	3. Small Steps

**Title**: Small Steps

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: _Colonel O'Neill has second thoughts about his team's newest acquisition... while Wesley Wyndham-Pryce wraps up a few final tasks in Los Angeles_. 3800 words.

**Spoilers**: A:tS up to "Ground State" (4.02). Stargate SG-1 through "Redemption, Part 2" (6.02), and AU from there.

**Notes**: 3rd in the "Starting Over" sequence, for kerravonsen.

* * *

Colonel Jack O'Neill watched from the window of his team's hotel suite as Wesley Wyndham-Pryce exited the lobby of the Sheraton below. The darkly-dressed Brit with the rough stubble, callused hands, and thousand-yard stare still baffled Jack a little; he'd come to L.A. expecting to find some lesser European knockoff of Daniel, specifically of the wide-eyed, naïve edition of his friend from back when they'd first joined the program, and ended up with a much more weathered cousin of the bitter, latter-year Dr. Jackson instead.

That wasn't exactly a disaster, on the face of it. Everything Jack had told General Hammond about the benefits of choosing a program outsider to join SG-1 still stood. The fact that the former scholar would come to the SGC with prior knowledge of the Goa'uld would put him a step up over most of the social scientists recruited in the last several years, and might provide a usefully different perspective on humanity's war with the alien parasites who liked to pretend they were gods.

He wasn't sure he liked the guy's attitude, though. Something had ruffled Pryce's feathers pretty severely. And a scar like the one he sported on his neck could only have been earned in close combat- from an opponent armed with a knife. He moved like he'd had some degree of martial training, too, but he had no law enforcement or military record to explain it. And all that talk of 'demons'... Jack just didn't like it, no matter what explanation Carter had found to patch over it. He didn't appreciate _any_ of the sums his mind came up with when he tried to add all the relevant facts together.

He keyed his radio to alert SG-2, who'd arrived and set up during their long getting-to-know-you session. "Subject has left the building," he announced.

"On it," Louis Feretti replied. Jack and the Lt. Colonel had previously discussed distributing his team to watch Pryce's car, office, and address of record; they'd decided that Lou himself and Quinn would follow Pryce from the hotel, so as not to risk losing track of him, while SG-1 waited in the suite for further contact.

"Keep me informed," Jack said, then signed off.

"What, not going to tell me I'm being paranoid?" he added after a moment, turning to meet the distracted gaze of his second, Major Samantha Carter.

"Mmm, no sir," she said thoughtfully, tapping away at a laptop balanced on the room's small table. Next to the laptop, a neat stack of paperwork kept it company. Pryce had signed the non-disclosure forms without hesitation, she'd reported; but she hadn't seemed entirely satisfied with his behavior, either.

"I know we initially looked him up due to a recommendation from Daniel, but this wouldn't be the first time one of his former friends was mixed up in Goa'uld business without his knowing about it," she continued. "I know it's a remote possibility, but if Pryce somehow encountered a stranded Goa'uld, or if he were working for some British organization equivalent to the N.I.D..."

"Still might be better than putting a Russian on the team," Jack mused aloud. Provided they didn't catch the guy in a lie, and he wasn't actually a Goa'uld himself- which if he was, Jack was pretty sure Teal'c would have been able to tell when he met him. Which of them _hadn't_ come to the program with some kind of sketchiness in their records? Even Carter wasn't perfect.

"Then you believe that if he shows no signs of such duplicity before meeting with us again, his trustworthiness will be assured?" Teal'c said, glancing between Jack and Carter with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe not _assured_," Jack allowed. "But it'll help. And once he's under the mountain, we'll have plenty of time to get to know him better."

Heck, he'd be tempted to bring the guy back to Colorado for just the opportunity to pick his brains, even if he _didn't_ end up on SG-1. The fact that Pryce knew even a few words of Goa'uld- and even believed that that they were another _species_- without any prior exposure to the program was something the SGC couldn't ignore. If nothing else, Nyan could use the help keeping the Social Sciences Department organized in Daniel's absence- or so he would tell General Hammond.

The fact that, just looking at Pryce, Jack felt a painful resonance with a certain time in his past he'd buried during that first trip to Abydos had no bearing on the subject, of course. None at all.

"SG one-niner, this is SG two-niner," his radio crackled again, activating.

"This is SG one-niner. What've you got?" he asked.

"Subject took a cab to the park to retrieve his car. Looks like he's headed for his apartment now."

About what Jack had expected. "Any attempts to communicate yet?"

"No cell phones, no other observed transmissions," Lou replied. Which would include anything sent on any popular Gou'ld, Tok'ra, Asgard, or Tollan frequencies- not that Jack was really expecting any of the above. It would be nice if, for once, his team had an Earth-side mission that _didn't_ rapidly devolve into disaster. They'd had more than enough of that for one week already.

"Good," he said, then signed off once more and returned to the table to settle in and wait. He wasn't the most patient guy in all the world, he'd be the first to admit. But sometimes, it was the best strategy to take.

"So, tell me what else you've learned about this guy," he said, steepling his fingers and making an intrigued expression at Carter over the back of her laptop.

* * *

Wesley took his time at his apartment after the meeting with Colonel O'Neill's team. He already knew what his answer would be, and while he thought over the ramifications he had decided to make the basic preparations necessary to follow it through.

It was the work of only a few moments to sort his belongings into categories: primarily those he would need to pack for the trip, as well as those that would need to be boxed for shipping to his eventual forwarding address. The remnants far outnumbered either category. Very little of what he'd bought in the city retained any memories worth preserving, or held any real intrinsic value. He would need to pay his coworkers to dispose of it all at one of the local charities. Perhaps the East Hills Teen Center; the idea held a certain air of serendipity.

His books and journals were, of course, the most valuable of his possessions, closely followed by his weapons, though most of the latter were kept at his temporary office. He was still short a few valuable, irreplaceable volumes he'd left behind at the Hyperion, but when he'd dropped Angel off after rescuing him- when he'd seen the way Fred and Gunn had focused on the vampire, then turned to Wesley for guidance as though the betrayals of the last few months had never occurred- he had written off the idea of retrieving the books any time soon. He hadn't been able to stomach one more minute within those walls.

Hypocrites, every one of them. And Wesley not least of all.

He was done here. His life in Los Angeles had been burnt, the earth salted; there was no point in waiting for new growth from such poisoned soil, no matter how heavily his regrets weighed him down.

With such perfect timing, if Colonel O'Neill's team had been from any organization other than the U.S. military, Wesley might have suspected the hand of the Watcher's Council or Wolfram and Hart in their offer. But no supernatural organization would expect him to take refuge under the wing of the American Air Force- which made the Colonel's offer very attractive as a long-term prospect.

When he had finished, a few sealed boxes formed a stack by the door. The bookshelves had been emptied but for a few framed photographs and a recently gifted copy of Dante's Inferno; the rest of the flat still looked much as it had when he'd arrived that evening. A duffel bag containing a few changes of clothes and toiletries lay atop the boxes, packed in anticipation of a cross-country flight.

As his last task, Wesley unplugged the phone, leaving the line to ring endlessly for anyone who might try to track him down. Then he invoked a cantrip that would deter any form of non-supernatural human surveillance- mechanical or otherwise- for the next hour or so, and left the apartment.

He locked the door carefully behind him, then headed straight for the underground tunnels. He knew where the safest paths ran under the surface of the city- where he and his temporary co-workers had had a hand in clearing over the last few weeks- and was willing to risk what danger remained in order to avoid official notice. After this one last task, he would be completely finished with his supernatural obligations in Los Angeles. If O'Neill _wasn't_ connected to the Initiative- and Wesley was fairly certain he was not, given various things he'd said in that day's meeting- he would only get himself or his teammates hurt trying to follow along with the evening's plans.

It didn't take long to meet up with Jones, Bradstreet, and Hawkins, and learn that the second ransom call had indeed come in. This time, Diana had managed to trace it to a local warehouse connected to Mr. O'Leary's demonic employers and likely inhabited by more of the same; he quickly sketched out a plan of attack, then assembled the proper weaponry and headed out.

None of the men were best pleased by the news that Wesley planned to depart after the warehouse was cleared, but they knew enough of his story to guess his reasons- that he'd once run Angel Investigations, that there'd been bad blood between him and the firm's namesake, and that Angel's return to the city meant Wesley was no longer comfortable operating there. It didn't hurt, either, that he'd promised they could split his share of the O'Leary case as compensation; the man's wife had promised to divide the ransom among Wesley's team if they succeeded, and it was not a paltry sum of money.

He'd have preferred to attack the warehouse in daylight, but imperfect situations were par for his course, and his people were well enough prepared for what they were facing. Between the four hunters, they swiftly slew the kidnappers and their compatriots, and only picked up one unauthorized audience member in the process.

His anti-surveillance measures had worked. It was a pity there was no such simple trick to prevent a vampire from entering a public building.

Wesley eyed Angel disdainfully as he stooped to lift a hotel key from the body of the demonic leader's corpse, then turned to toss it one of the others. "So, Mr. O'Leary's being kept in a motel. How original. Free him. Report to base; have Diana close out the file. I'll follow you there in a moment."

Angel eyed Wesley's co-workers as they filed out of the building, then slouched closer, his body language a curious mix of menace and apology. "Running your own game now, huh?" he said.

Wesley had thought to prevent any encounter such as this when he'd mailed Cordelia's file to the Angel Investigations offices; the only further purpose a meeting between them could serve would be to 'bury the hatchet', and he was far from ready to forgive and forget- or even to _be_ forgiven, in the remote possibility that Angel had already come to terms with what had happened with Connor.

He knew the vampire's resentful temperament; it was, after all, not much different from his own. Only a being prone to brood on grievances dealt him would stew in his _own_ guilt for more than a hundred years... and Wesley was well aware that his own black mood since the day Justine had ripped Connor from his arms likely sprang from a similar source. But by the same token, it would not be possible for _either_ of them to go on as though nothing had occurred; and all Wesley's belated rescue would have done to mend fences between them was to add a small degree of obligation on Angel's part to brace against the grave debt on Wesley's. Truly, it was better for both of them that Wesley was leaving town.

While he stood there thinking, staring blankly at the creature who had been variously enemy, associate, boss, employee, _family_, and object of fascination over the last several years, Angel cleared his throat and spoke further into the awkward silence.

"Must've been hard for you. No map. All that water. Look... what went down between us..." He shuffled his feet and shrugged, his expression caught somewhere between constipated and apologetic. "I had a lot of time down there to think."

Wesley cut him off there, waving a hand between them in negation. "Enough, Angel. I know what you're really here for- and you'll find it in the mail tomorrow morning. You didn't need to hunt me down and pretend everything is all right between us; in fact, you'll never need speak to me again, if you should so desire. I'll be resuming my former occupation within the week."

Angel blinked at that, befuddlement forming stormclouds on his brow. "I- what is it you think I'm here for?" he asked. "And what do you mean- you can't be leaving town. You're still hunting demons _here_." He gestured at the rapidly-dissolving corpses on the concrete floor.

"This is _your_ city," Wesley said, quietly. "I allowed myself to be snared here by your kindness, and Cordelia's, three years ago- but I fear I have more than overstayed my welcome."

"You can't mean that," Angel said. His expression had darkened, more offended than surprised or apologetic now. Wesley sighed and turned his back against that denial, heading toward the exit.

"When you find her- tell her I hope she is content with her choices," he replied as he walked.

Only frustrated silence echoed back to him. Grimly satisfied, Wesley set his jaw and cracked open the door.

* * *

Jonas frowned, staring at the officer General Hammond had asked him to follow while Colonel O'Neill made his decision. Lt. Colonel Ferretti seemed like an intelligent enough guy, and he seemed more open to listening to Jonas than O'Neill had since he'd walked through the gate from Langara, but Jonas couldn't help but wish he were with SG-1 all the same. Between O'Neill, Major Carter, and Teal'c, surely at least one of them would have come up with a believable explanation for what had just happened.

"I'm telling you, I saw him go into that building," he repeated himself, pointing toward the warehouse a few paces away, then toward the street. "He came out of that car with the three guys we followed here from his office, and went through the door behind me. It was definitely him; I recognized him from the surveillance video."

Ferretti tugged his cap off and rubbed a hand over his thinning hair, then shook his head. "I'm not saying you didn't see _someone_ get out of the car with them," he replied, "But it can't have been Pryce. He still hasn't left his apartment."

"No one _saw_ him leave his apartment," Jonas countered, certain he was on the trail of something important. He wasn't imagining things; and the fact that Ferretti _hadn't_ seen what he had had to be a clue, not a matter of chance. "Look, I've read most of Dr. Jackson's journals; I _know_ your people have encountered enemies that could turn invisible before."

Ferretti did pause to consider that point as he tugged his cap back on, but didn't seem convinced. "There's just one problem with that idea," he said, sounding frustrated. "Why would _you_ be able to see him when the rest of us can't?"

Jonas shook his head. That was one step beyond the evidence he had at hand; he couldn't say for sure, and didn't even know what was possible and what wasn't with Earth's advanced level of technology. There were only so many books he could skim for cultural innovations at a time. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," he said. "And- look. I know it might seem like I've got a reason to cast aspersions at him- I mean, I've hardly made any secret of the fact that I want to join SG-1, and Colonel O'Neill's actively recruiting him for the position- but that has nothing to do what I saw, or didn't see."

Ferretti's gaze had drifted over Jonas' shoulder as he spoke; now he lifted his hand, as if to halt the conversation. Jonas raised his voice a little to speak over him, determined to get the rest of his argument out, and continued. "And if he _is_ going to all these lengths to sneak around and hide what he's doing, don't you think that's something Colonel O'Neill would want to know about?"

"I suppose it might be at that," a very dry voice replied behind him, belatedly explaining Ferretti's attempt to stop him. The words were spoken in an accent Jonas had only heard a handful of times outside of his new planet's media broadcasts- the most recent of which had at a hotel across town.

He winced, then turned, determined to face the man as he had every other challenge he'd encountered since watching Dr. Jackson sacrifice his own life doing what Jonas should have had the courage to do himself. "You must be Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," he said, smiling carefully and extending a hand.

Compared to the images Jonas had seen earlier, Wesley was considerably the worse for wear, a slowly seeping cut marring one cheek and smudges of dirt and slime decorating his jeans and leather jacket. His eyebrows had drawn together at Jonas' greeting; he seemed surprised, and somewhat taken aback by Jonas' easy acceptance of his presence.

"Yes," he said slowly, accepting the handshake cautiously. "But you have the advantage of me, I'm afraid. Are you a colleague of Colonel O'Neill?"

If he'd been standing there for very long, he'd already overheard at least that much; there could be no harm in confirming it. "My name's Jonas Quinn. And I'd very much like to be," he said. "I'm something of a political refugee, and I'd hoped to take the open position on Colonel O'Neill's team to make myself useful now that I'm here."

Wesley tilted his head slightly, considering that explanation, then glanced past Jonas to the lieutenant colonel. "And what will you do if I am offered that role instead?" he asked.

Jonas turned to look at Ferretti himself; the officer had taken a few steps back to speak quietly into his radio, watching them with a shrewd, considering expression and his free hand on the holster of his gun. Jonas sighed, then turned back to Wesley with a shrug. "I'll probably join Colonel Ferretti's team," he admitted candidly. "I'd really rather work with SG-1, for- well, personal reasons- but-" He sighed, thinking the matter over yet again.

He might be able to damage Wesley's chances of joining the SGC if he lied, but as he'd been trying to tell Ferretti, he was on Earth because he wanted to _help_, not for his own benefit. If Wesley _was_ the best choice for SG-1, Jonas wouldn't be much worse off working with the secondary exploration team; it would be a net gain for the program. Whereas if he warned Wesley away, Jonas would be constantly double-checking himself on every mission he went on with O'Neill's team, wondering if Wesley might have done better in his place. After what had happened with Dr. Jackson, something deep inside him quailed at that thought.

Besides- did he _really_ need to make himself into a constant reminder of everything Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter, and Teal'c had lost when they'd visited his birthworld? Did his self-worth really depend on their approval?

_No_. He smiled again, ruefully this time, and shrugged at the man he'd been wrongfully considering 'the competition' ever since O'Neill had first announced his existence. "I'm sure Colonel O'Neill has his reasons for interviewing you instead, and if you really are a better fit for the job, as long as I can still contribute to the program somehow I'll be satisfied."

Wesley scrutinized his face for a long moment, then nodded. "I believe you," he said. "And I do understand your concerns, and those of your employers." He turned his attention back toward Ferretti on the word 'concerns', casting an intent look in the officer's direction, and continued slowly, choosing each word with care. "But you must understand, I have secrets of my own to protect, including one final and rather sensitive investigation I wanted to wrap up before accepting Colonel O'Neill's offer."

Jonas nodded thoughtfully. He might have been a little concerned, too, in normal circumstances, if he'd gone for an interview and then found his prospective employer following him all around town. "I get that. So _is_ there an explanation for the fact that I saw you, but Colonel Ferretti didn't?"

Wesley studied him a moment, as though weighing the pros and cons of several possible answers, then nodded slightly. "There is," he said. "You weren't born of this planet, were you?"

Jonas blinked at that. 'Of'? Not 'on'? That was an interesting choice of words. "How did you know?"

Wesley smiled thinly. "Suffice it say that I have learned a great many unusual things in my studies, some of which may apply directly to the SGC's interactions with visitors from beyond this world."

Leaving that enigmatic statement hovering in the air, he turned his attention toward Ferretti again, now that he'd finally lowered his radio. "Now if you're quite finished invading my privacy? I need to wrap up a few things at the office; you can tell the Colonel I'll sign his contract tomorrow."

Ferretti considered that, then nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "But he _will_ be wanting that explanation."

"I'll take that up with him," Wesley replied. Then he nodded to Jonas and extended his hand for another shake. "Mr. Quinn. Perhaps we'll speak again; I'm sure it will prove useful to have the perspective of another newcomer to the program."

Jonas grasped his hand firmly. "I'd like that," he said, then watched as Wesley turned and headed toward his borrowed vehicle.

He was even more curious now than he'd been when he'd watched Wesley vanish into the warehouse under Ferretti's nose. He was different than anyone he'd had met on Earth so far- even without his mysterious abilities.

Jonas had the strangest feeling he had just made a very valuable friend.

-x-


	4. Stepping Up

**Title**: Stepping Up

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: PG-13/T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _"Well, people?" General Hammond said, glancing around the conference table at the current members of SG-1. "What's your verdict?"_ 2000 words.

**Spoilers**: Angel early S4; SG-1 just before 6.3 "Descent"

**Notes**: For kerravonsen. I've been trying to write the "arrives at the Mountain" chapter in this series for _years_, but found it impossible to do so from Wes' POV. So: an interlude _about_ him, before getting into the actual action.

* * *

"Well, people?" General Hammond said, glancing around the conference table at the current members of SG-1. "What's your verdict?"

Colonel O'Neill, seated closest of the three on the left-hand side of the table, flipped open the folder in front of him. "If you're asking does Pryce meet the minimum qualifications for the job... yeah, there's no question about that. He's in excellent shape, he cleared medical despite the..." He gestured toward his throat, making a _Grrk!_ sound as he drew an invisible line. "He speaks half a dozen dead languages, and he certainly knows how to handle a weapon."

That last was something of an understatement, from what Hammond had been told by other personnel involved in the intake testing. The man's general state of fitness was not uncommon among civilians under the umbrella of the SGC- not with Dr. Jackson setting the standard for offworld scientists in recent years. But Pryce was also familiar with an incredible range of ballistic and edged weaponry, more than just the Berettas and P90s most commonly issued to gate team personnel, and his scores on the range would put half the soldiers on the base to shame. He might not have the brute strength of a member of one of the dedicated combat teams, but he'd have no trouble keeping up with SG-1.

But as the colonel's choice of preface had emphasized, there were other points for concern regarding former linguist and current detective. "And what of Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's ability to selectively appear and disappear, Major Carter?" he asked, turning to O'Neill's second. "Any indication of technological assistance or control by an external entity such as Nirrti or the Reetou?"

"Actually... no, sir," Carter said, her expression the familiar mixture of fascination and frustration that he'd come to associate with her discovery of new scientific puzzle. "He claims it's _magic_, and so far... well, I haven't been able to prove him wrong."

"Magic?" Hammond raised his eyebrows at her. That was very near the top of the list of things he'd never thought he'd hear her say. "Major..."

"Believe me, sir, I know," she shrugged, her expression disquieted. "We've seen a lot of amazing and fantastical things since the first time we opened the Stargate, and every single one so far has proven to be a manifestation of advanced technology, alien biology, or both. But he's demonstrated the so-called 'spell' he used to evade our surveillance several times, and I have yet to find a satisfactory explanation other than- well, 'magic'. If there's technology involved other than a few stinky herbs and a little chalk dust, I haven't seen it; and the rules that govern its use seem to be extremely idiosyncratic."

Hammond frowned, steepling his fingers on the table. If she was serious about that... well. Images from that popular book series his grandchildren were so in love with flashed through his mind. If reality was even half so eccentric- not to mention dangerous- as fiction, it could prove to be a real problem.

"You'll have to give me a better explanation than _that_, Major. One I can at least put in the paperwork and trust to stand up under scrutiny. The SGC cannot afford to have a wild card of indefinable capability, and worse, sanity, as part of our premiere team. We have a hard enough time maintaining our funding- and our allies- as it is."

"I know that, sir." She sighed. "And I think he knows that, too. Because he gave me a cover explanation as well- one that has more than a grain of truth to it, I think. It's just not _quite_ the full story."

"Let's hear it, then," he prompted her.

She glanced across the table at her two teammates, then back at Hammond, and said: "Ley lines."

"Ley lines?" O'Neill's eyebrows flew up as he stared at her. "It can't be ley lines."

Hammond frowned. Carter hadn't even finished her explanation, and while O'Neill had a better academic record than he liked to let on, his degrees were not in any scientific field that might apply to the situation. "And why is that, Colonel?" he asked, giving the man a quizzical look.

"Because- because it can't! Back me up here, T," O'Neill said, turning to the Jaffa at his side. "You were there when Daniel lost it on that tweed-wearing type. What was it he said?"

Teal'c adopted a lofty expression. "Contrary to popular Tau'ri belief, 'ley lines' are not a historically known phenomenon. The term was coined in 1921 by an amateur archaeologist who believed he had discovered alignments of significant locations, such as ancient monuments and megaliths, natural ridge tops and water fords. But no proof exists that they have any actual substance, physical or otherwise."

"Exactly!" O'Neill pointed a finger at him, then frowned. "Huh; and he really was pretty vehement about it, wasn't he? I wonder if something like that was behind his falling out with Pryce, back in the day. Aliens versus magic... sounds like a bad TV movie."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Carter replied. "And I'm not saying it _is_ ley lines; just that that's the simplified version of his explanation. There actually _are_ conduits of energy running underground and throughout the oceans: they're called the telluric currents. They may not match up with the imaginary lines Alfred Watkins drew across his map of Britain, but it's known scientific fact that changes in the outer part of the planet's magnetic field induce extremely low frequency electric currents that flow at or near the surface of the Earth. They can be affected by both natural causes and human activity, and interact in complex patterns with diurnal characteristics."

Hammond frowned, digesting that explanation. "I've heard the term before," he ventured, recognizing it from his knowledge of American history. "I believe early telegraphers sometimes used earth batteries, powered by such currents, as an energy source?"

"Exactly," Carter nodded, brightening. "Apparently, that energy can be used for, shall we say, alternative purposes as well."

"So Pryce is saying what we think of as 'magic' is actually natural electricity, tapped into somehow by a human being?" O'Neill glanced between them in disbelief, making finger quotes in the air.

"It's a theory," she said, shrugging. "We know that more than one alien race has visited Earth in the past. Is it possible that the ability to access such energy is a product of genetic interference by a third party? That could explain its rarity among our population. It also suggests an explanation for the fact that those not native to the field, such as Teal'c and Jonas, were affected differently than everyone else when he cast the 'spell' in Los Angeles." She echoed O'Neill's finger motions.

"How so?" Hammond asked.

"Because while most people don't have the ability to _use_ the energy, they've lived their whole lives under the influence of Earth's geomagnetic field. They're attuned to it, for lack of a better term- and it makes sense that those who were born on other worlds would not have that same sensitivity. But I hesitate to speculate further without conducting more experiments."

"How familiar is he with other applications for this- energy? And if it's limited by access to Earth's geomagnetic field, how useful will this ability be offworld?"

"He says he does know a few- a form of energy manipulation that mimics telekinesis, for example, another that mimics pyrokinesis, and a method of tracking that wouldn't rely on GPS or transmitters, among others. But when we took him to the Alpha Site to test them there?" She winced. "The results were wildly inconsistent. It seems reasonable to assume that his ability to access that energy will vary widely from planet to planet, and is therefore unlikely to be useful in missions of short duration."

"Damn," O'Neill replied. "As much as all this creeps me out, that firemaking thing could have come in handy. Not to mention the tracking ability."

"Indeed," Teal'c commented. "There have been times such a talent would have benefited us greatly."

Hammond nodded, considering that. "I would agree. But it does simplify matters from a political standpoint. I can classify Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's unusual abilities under the same umbrella as Cassandra Frasier's brief experience with telekinesis, or Major Carter's ability to access Goa'uld technology- that is, occasionally useful but not extraordinary- rather than risk bringing his expression of 'magic' to the attention of other agencies such as the NID."

Carter nodded, her expression troubled. "That had occurred to me too, sir. Although when I aired the subject with him in passing, he was dismissive about it; he seemed to believe that the Pentagon was _already_ aware of 'magic' under the auspices of an Army program known as the DRI. Unfortunately, the DRI seems to be just as highly classified as the SGC."

"I suppose it's no use asking what the initials stand for, then?" O'Neill drawled.

"Sorry, sir," Carter shrugged.

Hammond _had_ heard of the DRI- but only in passing, and only in a manner that verified its existence, and that something had gone very, very wrong under its auspices a few years back. No surprise, perhaps, given what they were apparently involved with- but he supposed the same could be said of _his_ command. "I'll look into that, Major. Thank you," he said.

Then he turned to Teal'c. "And your assessment, Teal'c?" Between the Jaffa's alien background, which often led him to see and question things that many Tau'ri would not, and the fact that he had spent a number of years as the supreme leader of Apophis' forces, he was an excellent judge of character; his opinion might very well make or break Wyndam-Pryce's acceptance on the team.

Teal'c inclined his head in response, relaxing Hammond's nerves. "I believe he will be an asset."

"Is that all?" O'Neill tuned, raising his eyebrows at his teammate. "You don't find him a little... secretive, maybe?"

"Not unduly," Teal'c informed him. "He has spoken at length with both myself and JonasQuinn about our reasons for joining the Tau'ri, and the reaction each of us faced from our peoples. It seems likely that something similar was behind his change of occupation; he was himself exiled from the community of his peers for attempting to do what was necessary. In addition, he is dedicated and swift to learn; he has already become conversant in spoken Goa'uld."

"Considering he was working from the equivalent of a phrasebook when he arrived, that's quite impressive," Hammond said, nodding. It said something that he was making the effort to connect with other members of the program, as well. "So are you all agreed?"

"Well, let's see," O'Neill said, slouching back in his chair. "He's a little screwed in the head, talented in some ways we could really use and a bit of a wildcard in others, and cares more about doing the _right_ thing than the easy thing." He glanced thoughtfully at Carter, then at Teal'c, then turned to Hammond and nodded. "Sounds like he'll fit in just fine."

Hammond took a deep breath, then let it out. The Russians would be disappointed, as would Mr. Quinn, but he'd made a deal, and O'Neill had proved its worth. "I concur," he said. "The Tok'ra liaison will arrive in two hours; he'll accompany SG-1 to check out that mystery ship Major Carter detected in orbit. You'll greet him as a four man team, and we'll reassess after the mission."

He knew it would never be the same- but it would be good to see the team filled out again. SG-1 was more than just four remarkable individuals or a legendary record; they were a symbol of the SGC, its 'public' face to those in the know and an inspiration to the other teams. It was time they were out in the galaxy again, taking the sorts of missions they used to and bringing home new allies, resources, and yes, even enemies.

He only hoped Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was up to the pressure.

-x-


End file.
